


Baldur's Bane

by RunMild



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Mistletoe, Roy is a troll, Sex pollen?, the batboys and their mistletoe machinations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-14 06:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13001481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunMild/pseuds/RunMild
Summary: “Well, wearebeneath mistletoe.”You have several tart responses ready on your tongue, but before you loose them, you glance up, curious.“That—Jason, that isparsley.”-ThePoetic Eddahas one thing right: mistletoe is a pain.





	1. Tim Drake/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some stand under the mistletoe. Some have mistletoe thrust upon them.

There is no worse time to live in the city than during the holiday season. Traffic is more congested than usual, public transit is overcrowded with both travelers and their purchases, and outings have to be plotted with more precision than most military operations. And if the cutthroat soccer moms in retail lines aren’t brutal enough, there’s always an uptick in criminal activity, Gotham’s villains cooking up more than just Christmas ham.

And speaking of Christmas ham—

“Where are you?”

Your grocery bags leave angry stripes on your arms as you manage to adjust your phone between your ear and shoulder. Not for the first time, you consider going hands-free. You’re sure your boyfriend would hook you up with something considerably higher tech than a Bluetooth, though, so you don’t mention your struggle.

“Sorry?” you say, lifting one overburdened arm to plug your other ear.

“Are you home?” Tim sounds out of breath. “Please tell me that’s the television I hear in the background.”

You look around at the holiday crowds in the shopping center. “Um. It’s the television?”

Tim mutters something unintelligible. It _might_ be a curse. “Stay where you are. I’m coming to get you.”

You open your mouth to reply, any number of comments sitting on your tongue, but he’s already hung up. He always forgets the niceties when he’s stressed; you try not to take it personally. You also don’t bother to ask how he knows your location, instead staring down at the dark screen of your GPS-emitting phone with something akin to betrayal.

Hero-types. Honestly.

Though he instructed you to stay put, you’re sure Tim didn’t mean for you to stand in the middle of foot traffic, so you move off to the side. There’s a bench in sight of the complex’s garland-wrapped stairs and accompanying escalators, and you gratefully sit, bags splaying around you. Your arms protest the sudden return of circulation. Nothing in your immediate vicinity strikes you as alarming—other than the weirdly breathy rendition of _Santa Baby_ playing over the loudspeakers—and you consider checking your news feed to see what has Tim in such a tizzy. Is it another mechanical Santa gone rogue? Are the roads being converted to ice rinks via freeze rays?

How soon does this food need to be refrigerated, anyway?

You have a Christmas potluck at work to prepare for, and then a few last-minute gifts to worry about purchasing before you can even _think_ about settling back and enjoying the holidays. Just sitting here listening to increasingly bad covers of Christmas songs has you feeling antsy.

In your distraction, you almost don’t notice the creeping greenery.

There’s no shortage of people-watching to be done in the heart of Gotham, the city drawing people from all walks of life. You’re playing the old stand-by game, How Many Hero Shirts (twelve so far, and one shirtdress with bat symbol print,) and you can’t help but note that there’re a lot of handsy people out today. There’s a couple making out on the escalator, stumbling as their steps level out with the floor. Two others bump into a column near you, locked together in a passionate embrace. You’re starting to feel like a voyeur, actually, your eyes darting around to see more coat clad figures succumbing to… what? Holiday spirit? Where’s the sense of decorum?

Your eyes meet the scrunched gaze of a kid, probably eight or so, whose parents are getting a little too friendly nearby. Both of your expressions say the same thing: what the _hell?_ Or, in his case, _heck._

And then you see the mistletoe.

“Only in Gotham,” you mutter. There’s no one in hearing range (who isn’t otherwise engaged) to hear you let loose a string of colorful words, and you gather up your bags, heedless of Tim’s previous warning, and make toward the nearest exit. The greenery stretches along the walls and vaulted ceiling of the complex, spreading ever further even as you watch. The skylights are quickly being overtaken, the natural light choked out by waxy leaves. It’s unmistakably mistletoe, berries hanging in clumps of both red and white, although you’ve never heard of it growing as a _vine._ It’s beautiful… and ominous. Somehow, you don’t think the glimmering substance drifting off of the leaves like clouds of golden pollen is anything as innocuous as craft glitter.

Your nose itches, and you valiantly repress a sneeze.

There are other shoppers rushing past, and only some of them look aware of the possible danger. A pinch-mouthed woman with an oversized purse marches past, glaring at the living décor, and you realize that some of the pedestrians are just _willfully_ ignorant. Apparently, some things are more important than Poison Ivy’s (because who else could it be?) newest gambit, although you can’t imagine what. Maybe Kirklands is having a sale.

A sudden tug scatters your thoughts of country chic bargains, and you’re dragged into an emergency exit hallway before you have a chance to protest.

“Sorry for the ambush, but we have to go.” It’s Tim. Of course it’s Tim.

You note that he’s in civilian clothes, eyes unmasked, and you open your mouth to question him, but he half-turns, looking around with suspicion, and you see a peek of red beneath his coat. _Ah._ You’d bet anything that if you checked his pockets right now, you’d find a domino mask.

“That’s awfully sloppy for you,” you tease, nodding to his outfit when he meets your gaze with a quizzical look of his own.

He looks down, then hastily buttons his coat.

“I didn’t exactly have time for a full costume change,” he says, mouth flat, but eyes crinkling up. He lifts your bags from bloodless fingers and jerks his head toward the glowing exit sign. You’d ask about the alarm on the door, but you’re almost certain that he came in this way.

“Are you going to or from an engagement?” You’re careful with your phrasing even when you think you’re alone; it never does to assume around here. Not when the walls have eyes and ears.

“I’m in the middle of an engagement,” he says, emphasis on “engagement.” He hoists the bags up higher, readjusting. “Did you buy rocks, by any chance?”

You trail behind, through the door and into a service alley. There’s a sleek car there, parked no-doubt illegally.

“They were on sale,” you say, rolling your eyes. “If you can’t handle them, I can take them off of your hands.”

The car’s tiny trunk pops open, the parcels quickly wedged inside. Tim turns with a tiny grin and a raised eyebrow. “I think I got it.”

“Baby.”

“Oh, are we doing pet names now?” His grin grows, widening to near shit-eating proportions. He leans against the rear bumper, keys spinning in his hand, and you want to wipe the self-satisfied look off his face.

Preferably with your face.

Something must show in your expression, because Tim’s smile flickers and he’s suddenly in your space, eyes shifting from warm to analytical. He reaches up and brushes your shoulder, and you glance in surprise to see a fine dusting of golden powder puff beneath his fingertips.

“Well,” you say, swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat. “That’s… probably not good.”

Tim’s mouth is a hard line. “Nothing life threatening, but—” He rubs his fingers together, the dust dissipating. “I’m taking you home.”

You’re ushered into the low-sitting sports car, Tim sliding into the drivers seat a half second later. There’s no music to distract you from your growing anxiety, and no police scanner either. Tim, when you glance at him, looks distracted, though his eyes are on the road, and his driving smooth as he slips through traffic. Your eyes keep slipping to his mouth, and you berate yourself for it. You’re as bad as the shoppers in the—

Wait.

“Did Poison Ivy infect the city with _sex pollen?”_

Tim grimaces, eyes flicking to yours and then away. “”Sex pollen” is a bit of an overstatement. There’s certainly some kind of aphrodisiac element to the plants, but we don’t think it’s anything strong enough to break through preexisting reservations.”

“So people _aren’t_ jumping each other in the street right now?” You look out of the window as if to check, but you’ve already passed the last of the spreading greenery. There were several blocks infested with it, though.

He looks uncomfortable. “I didn’t say that.”

“Shouldn’t you be out there?” Not that you aren’t thrilled to be out of the thick of it—who knows when the plants might start to choke their victims with something more than pollen—but your boyfriend is kind of an important person to the city.

“I was—actually, I was one of the first on sight.” He shifts in his seat, taking the turn into your apartment’s parking.

You stare at him.

“Are you—?” Realization dawns. “You weren’t wearing anything over your face.”

Tim parks the car, but leaves it idling. “…No.”

You lean over, turning his chin so that he’s looking you in the eye. His pupils are blown.

“Oh my god,” you say.

“Like I said, nothing life threatening.” He shifts in his seat again. “Just— _uncomfortable._ ”

You almost laugh, but—no, that would be mean. And frankly, hypocritical, because you’re feeling “ _uncomfortable,”_ too.

You regard each other for several breaths.

“Well,” you say at the same time Tim says, “Do you—?”

You both stop, and then, with a mental shrug, you decide to just go for it.

Your seatbelt clicks open with a startlingly loud crack, and you let it sling back toward the window even as you duck under the low roof of the car and shimmy over the console. It’s not a car designed for spontaneous lap-sitting, but you think you can make do. Tim, quick on the uptake, slides the seat as far away from the wheel as it will go—not very—and immediately brackets your hips with his hands.

“We could just go insi—” he starts, but you cut him off with a press of your lips.

He doesn’t protest after that.

The angle isn’t great, and there’s a little movement as Tim tries to lean the seat back, but you ignore the twinge in your neck and move your mouth against his, his lips softening into compliance. You curl your fingers over his shoulder, your other hand traveling up to grasp dark strands of hair, drawing a little sound from him when you tug. You draw back and he reels you back in, one kiss turning into a flurry of not-quite closed mouth kisses. You breathe a sigh against him, happy to have him here, regardless of the circumstances, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding sweetly against yours.

You’re a little more frantic now, and a lot less reserved. The pace of your kisses quickens, your breaths coming in short pants. Beside you, the window is fogging. Tim’s hand slips beneath your shirt, palm like a brand over your spine. You shift, bringing your bodies closer, and your hips press into his, and _oh—_

“I think,” Tim rasps, breaking away with a gutted sound, “that we need to get out of this car before we get arrested for public indecency.”

You run your thumb over his lower lip, and he turns his head to nip at it.

“You want to do _indecent_ things to me, Tim Drake?” You mean it to sound coy, but it sounds more like a plea.

Tim reaches behind you to open the door, his chest pressing against yours. Cold air rushes in, but that’s not what has you shivering.

“I have a _list_ of indecent things I’d like to do to you,” he says in your ear. “Would you like to go alphabetically or chronologically?”

It’s probably the nerdiest dirty talk you’ve heard in your life, but you’re already clambering out, Tim hot on your heels.

“Oh!” you say, starting to turn. “The ham.”

Tim makes a sound not unlike a growl. “Forget the ham; you’re coming over for Christmas dinner.” His hand is on your lower back, already guiding you away.

You open your mouth to protest—it’s not for you, it’s for the potluck—but then his words sink in.

Coming over for—

Oh. He’s inviting you to the manor. With his family. Of superheroes.

You stumble up the stairs to your apartment in a sort of daze, but then Tim is commandeering your keys and bundling you inside, mouth on your neck, and then—

And then you don’t do much thinking at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Tim. Chicks dig lists. Nothing gets us hotter.
> 
> Dork.


	2. Jason Todd/Reader pt.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Challenge issued

The first time you encounter mistletoe as a couple, it is shortly before Thanksgiving. Holiday decorations have been creeping into public spaces since the beginning of November, but the occasional tinsel and pine has hardly been on your radar; you have more important things to focus on than premature Christmas spirit.

Jason, however, doesn’t miss a thing.

“Forgetting something?”

You glance back at your boyfriend, already several steps away. “…No?”

You do a quick mental review to make sure that, _yes,_ the waitress was tipped, and _no,_ you didn’t leave anything essential in your booth.

Jason, stubbornly languid, doesn’t budge from the doorway. One hand is in his jacket pocket, but the other is pointing up, toward the top of the doorframe. You give him a flat look—he’s letting the café’s heat out—but move to get a closer look, anyway.

“Is that—?” You stare up at the suggestive sprig, your feet still planted on the outside of the entryway.

“Yup.” His face is smug. Expectant.

You cross your arms. “You’ll note that we didn’t exit at the same time.”

“Oh?” His expression doesn’t change.

A member of the waitstaff catches your eye from behind Jason’s shoulder, and you give a tight, embarrassed grin. Jason shifts, his body eclipsing your view, and you’re not sure whether to smile or frown at the stubborn set of his chin.

You decide to meet it with a haughty look of your own.

“The rule is we both have to be caught under it at the same ti—"

His free hand darts out and around your scarf before you can finish. There’s a wide-eyed moment where you instinctively jerk back, before another warm, calloused hand grasps your face and you are face-to-face with a very satisfied-looking Jason Todd.

“Looks like you’re caught.”

Your protest dies on your lips, brushed away by his own, and you lean up into him despite yourself. Jason hums a satisfied note against you, his smile evident.

“Sir, you’re blocking the door.”

You fairly leap out of your skin at the voice, your judgement returning after a brief, boyfriend-fueled lapse.

“Sorry!” you say, even as Jason rolls his eyes with a “Yeah, yeah.”

You backpedal onto the sidewalk, Jason matching you stride for stride. He swoops back in when you’re free of the threshold, but you press two fingers against his smirking lips.

“Nuh-uh. Privacy first.”

Something wet touches your finger pads, and you resist the urge to snatch your hand away. Your withering look is somewhat marred by the rising flush in your cheeks.

Jason relents, but not before another pointed swipe of his tongue.

“Fuckin’ square,” he says with a gusty sigh, but takes your damp fingers anyway, tugging you down the busy sidewalk.

You don’t mention the soft set of his mouth, or the way he stands between you and the rest of the foot traffic, and in return, he doesn’t cut his eyes when you press into him on the subway (ostensibly due to the crush of other bodies,) and tip your head onto his shoulder. Your relationship isn’t new, per se, but some things are still fragile, some comforts unspoken.

Your linked fingers remain unacknowledged, but Jason’s thumb presses into yours when you reach your stop, and it is enough.

“So, when you say _privacy—_ ” Jason starts when you reemerge into the (relatively) fresh air of the city. He’s looking around as if this slightly less busy street is an acceptable place to pick up where you left off. You’re almost certain that he’s teasing, but it’s hard to tell sometimes. The guy cleans house at poker.

“Don’t press your luck,” you say. “You’re not that suave.”

His eyebrows raise, and you realize your mistake too late.

“And that was _not_ a challenge.”

He doesn’t say a word, just continues to walk until your joined hands propel you forward. The growing smile on his face spells trouble for you, though.

“I’m _serious,_ Jay!”

“Uh-huh.”

Jason’s expression is simultaneously amused and contemplative, and your stomach does a nervous flip. Nothing good can come from a scheming Jason Todd.

 _But then again_ , you think as his thumb drags over your knuckles, _“good” is subjective in Gotham_.

You’re willing to find some bias.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like 'em ornery.


	3. Jason Todd/Reader pt.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I Can't Believe It's Not Mistletoe - the creative man's solution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M'rry Crimus

Your whole floor smells like Christmas at an Italian restaurant, and you have a deep suspicion that you know the cause. Even before you reach your door, you can hear the bickering of two very familiar voices, and you don’t bother to use your keys; neither Jason nor Roy ever bother to lock the door behind them.

“—only festive thing _in_ here!”

“I don’t give a fuck—hey, babe—it smells like Papa John is shoving two Christmas trees into my skull cavity _._ ”

You stop in the entryway, the door wavering in front of you. Now that the full brunt of the smell has hit you, you’re not sure that you want to lock yourself in with it.

“What _is_ that?” Your nose is trying to decipher the jumble of food-smells and definitely-not-food smells, and it’s making your head spin.

Roy is holding two flickering candle jars, his expression bordering on mutinous. Jason has his arms crossed, something red smeared across one forearm. It doesn’t look like blood, which is a relief.

“Carrot top thought we weren’t bein’ _festive_ enough, so he found the most obnoxious candles he could at the corner store and _lit them all at once._ ”

You see another couple candles on the counter, the wicks already blackened, and figure Roy is holding the last two survivors. From the expression on Jay’s face, you don’t give them long.

And considering the fact that they are open flames, and that Roy won’t give in without a fight, you don’t give your _apartment_ long, either.

“I think it’s creating a kind of mustard gas,” you say, nose wrinkled. “Please blow them out.”

The look Roy sends you is one of pure betrayal.

“They’re Pinewood Forest and Traditional Christmas,” he says, as if that will sway you at all.

“We’ll light one later,” you promise. Behind your back, your fingers cross, and you hear Jason snort.

Roy relents with a muttered, “ _Fiiine.”_

The smell of spent candles washes over you, inexplicably reminding you of birthday cake, and you spare a thought for the smoke alarms. Between the boys’ cooking and the candles, their restraint is being sorely tested.

“Hey,” Jason says into your hair, pulling you close while Roy sulks at the sink.

“You broke into my apartment. Again.” Your voice holds no real censure, and you grip the back of Jay’s shirt with cold fingers. He smells a lot better than the rest of the kitchen.

“Yup,” he says, completely unapologetic. “I made pizza.”

“Oh, _fancy._ Explains the other half of the aroma.” You look toward the stove with interest, seeing evidence of sauce pans and more of the red substance. “Looks like a marinara massacre in here.”

Jason makes a grumbling sound over your head, his fingers playing absently with the back hem of your shirt. “Haven’t had a chance to clean up yet.”

“It wasn’t a complaint,” you say, tilting your head up to peck his chin. His height makes surprise kisses nigh impossible. “Frankly, I’m just impressed that you didn’t use the jarred stuff.”

He shifts to accommodate you, lips mumbling against yours. “That’s cheating.”

“Oh, Jay, I didn’t know you were so _principled._ ” You laugh when he nips at you in retaliation.

There’s a retching noise from your other uninvited guest. “Oh my god, get a _room.”_

“You’re standing in my room, Roy,” you say from around your wall of a boyfriend. “Everything the light touches is my kingdom.”

“I vote we banish him from the Pride Lands,” Jason says.

You try to keep a straight face as Roy’s realizes neither of you will be taking his side on anything today. Or any day, probably.

“I’m feeling very unappreciated.” He swipes a sponge over a sauce spill half-heartedly. “I’ve done nothing but help.”

Jason looks over his shoulder at his friend. “You ate half of the cheese before the pizzas even made it into the oven.”

Roy opens his mouth to retaliate, but you interrupt, voice arch. “My apartment smells like Olive Garden and Bath and Body Works had a bad affair.”

“You stabbed me with a kitchen implement," Jason continues. _"Twice.”_

“You—"

“Okay, okay! I get it.” Roy throws up his hands. “But for the record, you’re both ungrateful. And biased.”

The timer goes off, then, and there’s a scramble for oven mitts. The smell of food begins to eclipse the other, less savory scents.

“Oh, baby,” Roy says, bent over the steaming trays. “Those are some fine-looking pies.”

Jason shoves his face away from the glistening cheese with a mildly disdainful expression. “Hands and nose _off_ of the food.”

You finally remember to shuck off your outer layers, your coat and scarf left unceremoniously on the back of the couch.

“Drinks?” you ask. “We have water, soda, and some five-dollar wine.”

The three of you end up with mugs of cheap wine—which Jay says has notes of cherry and cardboard—and plates of mouth-meltingly hot pizza. The boys manage to put away most of it between them, and by the time Jason manages to bully Roy out of the door, there are no leftovers to put in your fridge.

It’s a shame, really.

“You could have let him stay to clean up,” you say when Jason returns from deadbolting the door. Now that you’re both here, he’s more than willing to use the locks.

“If he opened his mouth one more time, there was gonna be bloodshed.” He comes up behind you, sliding his hands under your shirt and around to your front while you run water into the sink.

You shiver.

“If we don’t get this cheese off, it’s going to be a nightmare later.”

Jason doesn’t respond, just drags calloused fingers over your stomach in broad strokes.

“ _Jay,”_ you groan, head thunking against his chest. You mean it to sound exasperated, but the word catches at the end, and you can _feel_ the satisfaction rolling off of him in waves. “You’re insufferable,” you mutter.

“I think you mean _suave,”_ he teases in your ear. His fingers dip lower, skimming just below the waistline of your jeans.

Your eyes pop open, and you realize you don’t even remember closing them.

“Wait—is this still about that stupid comment?”

The button on your pants pops open.

“I think we can upgrade me to downright debonair,” he says consideringly. 

You huff. “You literally have your hands in my pants, Casanova.”

Said hands _do not stop_ their slow exploration, and your fingers find a death grip on the edge of the counter. Your underwear slip downward in tiny increments, and you can feel the waistband threatening to fold over.

 “Well, we _are_ beneath mistletoe.”

You have several tart responses ready on your tongue, but before you loose them, you glance up, curious.

“That—Jason, that is _parsley._ ”

The wilting herb has been scotch taped to your textured ceiling. You have to admire his ingenuity, if nothing else.

“No it’s not. Look, it even has little red berries.” He grins down at you, sharp-eyed and hungry.

“That is _marinara sauce,_ you _—mm.”_

He cuts you off with a kiss. The angle is all wrong, your back to his front, your neck twisted awkwardly, but Jason solves the problem with his usual method—quick thinking and brute force. You’re flipped around and placed on the counter before you have a chance to voice your discomfort, Jason standing between your thighs and looking smug.

“You were saying?” He further crowds you into the cabinets, his smirking mouth descending back to yours. His hands resume their single-minded quest to drive you mad, thumbs drawing circles over your hips and bringing your pants down with every downward stroke.

“Mistletoe—” you say, breaking away with a gasp, “—is only for kisses.”

Jason levels you with a slow smile, lips swollen, eyes black. “Is the location of those kisses specified, rule keeper?”

You swallow reflexively. “Uh—no, no I don’t think so.”

“Well then,” he says, and the hungry look is back. “ _Merry Christmas.”_


End file.
